


Classroom Cages

by downtheroadandupthehill, ryssabeth



Series: Glory Days [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barely Legal, High School, M/M, Student/Teacher relations, secondary school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who gave him the right to teach a classroom full of teenagers, hmm?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classroom Cages

Grantaire holds the tip of his tongue between his back teeth because pressing it to the top of his mouth stopped working. And the only reason _this_ method of keeping the noise down is more effective is because the spark of pain along his tongue has gone straight to the ache between his legs and the hard strokes are leaving him breathless.

(It’s not like he can inhale deeply enough right now to make a sound anyway.)

Water (and spit), it should be noted, make really shitty lube, but it’s not like he has any other options in a school bathroom and— _oh God_ —he wouldn’t even—even be here at all—if it wasn’t—f-for—

He braces his back against the wall of the stall, trying not to slam his head against it, trying to bring his release with just one—two _three_ more strokes (and he pictures blonde curls and the hard curve of a mouth and _see me after class_ ringing in his ears in that stern voice that always makes him wonder if his teacher is as dominating in bed as he is during lectures. And even though he’s a politics teacher, not a math one, Grantaire can imagine himself bent over his desk and _Mr. Enjolras_ with a fucking ruler in his hand and _oh_ —)

He fumbles for the absolutely terrible school-issue toilet paper (and fumble is a scarily appropriate word because he’s so close he can taste the blood on his tongue from biting too hard—because otherwise he’d say the name that’s ringing in his head).

He only just manages not to stain his clothes, his knees going weak because his teacher’s voice is in his ear (angry but insistent, _political philosophy for thought_ ) and sweet Jesus—

(He comes and it is blinding and a little painful because—once again—water and spit.)

This gives Grantaire cause to wonder what his life has come to, that he has to take ten minutes in the bathroom to relieve the tension in his lower body because everything that his government teacher says is a sin—a Cardinal sin.

He pulls his jeans back up to his hips, zipping and buttoning them quickly before he washes his hands, evening out his breathing so the flush high in his cheeks can get back under his skin where it belongs. ( _Fucking professors_ , he thinks as he shakes the water from his fingers.

And then he amends his thought, because that doesn’t help his case whatsoever.)

He splashes cold water on his face to bring himself back a little closer to earth and to wipe the bit of blood from his lip from where he bit down too hard, and slips out of the bathroom, back down the empty, locker-lined hallway to class. Closes the classroom door carefully behind him, because Enjolras is pacing across the front of the room in a passionate lecture about God-only-knows-what—Grantaire tries to pay attention most of the time but his hands are still trembling from the aftermath of his hasty orgasm so right now he just can’t.

His teacher shoots him a glare as he slides into his desk, and he knows he’s been gone far too long for just a routine bathroom break, and Enjolras probably thinks he’s been sneaking a cigarette instead. But Grantaire knows he doesn’t smell like smoke—not right now, anyway—he smells like sweat and probably a touch of semen but he only looks halfway to debauched, so at least he doesn’t look thoroughly debauched and therefore give himself away entirely. Enjolras pauses for a moment, raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, but doesn’t comment. And Grantaire wonders what he would do if Grantaire came back looking very, very fucked-out and reeking of sex. He might get a lecture of his own and possibly detention, and if he hadn’t just come all over his hand in the bathroom he could probably get it up again merely at that delicious thought.

For now he stares downward at his notes and files the fantasy away for future, more leisurely perusal when he actually has lube at home in his nightstand to use and to take his time with.

His cheeks are pink again, and when he glances up Enjolras is speaking again, and not paying any more attention to him whatsoever, which is for the best, really. Grantaire doesn’t need any more fodder for his “private time” or his wet dreams and porn has been absolutely ruined for him ever since the first day of his final year when Enjolras first snapped at him for laughing with Courfeyrac in the back corner.

( _“_ _Mr. Grantaire, if you insist upon talking during class, I am going to have to insist in return that you put your mouth to better use and please enlighten as to the differences between socialist practices and capitalism in its purest sense.”_

Grantaire had immediately shut up and that had been the start of this whole fucking mess in the first place, as he imagined putting his mouth to better use around the cock of his goddamn government teacher, who was, he had realized then, now that he started paying attention, far too tall and lithe and blond and attractive and who the hell had thought it would be a good idea to hire someone like him to teach a bunch of hormonal high school kids anyway.)

Turns out this lecture—in particular—is referring to anarchy and when and how it’s applicable. (On occasion, Grantaire is impressed that he can even manage to teach this kind of stuff to senior students, who are only here because government is a required credit—only available to people in their final year.) The bitter tilt to Enjolras’ lips when he refers to the evils of corruption and how people feel the need to rise up in retaliation could be, perhaps, an acceptable form of anarchy.

“Grantaire.”

The whisper of his name catches his ear, and he tilts his head to Courfeyrac, pulling his eyes away from a mouth that’s no doubt as successful at getting what it wants in the bedroom as it is in keeping the attention of the students in this class. “Where _were_ you?” But by the half-amused half-almost-horrified expression on his face, Grantaire is almost eighty percent certain that Courfeyrac already knows—and there is no way on this Earth that Grantaire would confirm those suspicions.

“Bathroom—you think I would _lie_?” A cough, from the front of the room, stops them both (as it usually does—their English teacher has had to separate them, which is really rather sad, because now they are forced to pass notes like schoolchildren). “Oh.”

“Care to share with the class?” Enjolras’ voice is slimy with sweetness, and Grantaire does, honestly, feel like a schoolboy. (Oh wait—he is something of a schoolboy, though, isn’t he, and not a character in some low-budget porno who gets to fuck his teacher.)

But he’s never one to be embarrassed, never let that stop him before.

And so he says, “Sure, _Mister_ _Enjolras_. I was just asking Courfeyrac if he thought that, maybe, you might be advocating for no government ever. If corruption is inherent in governing, why bother with governing at all?” He sits back in his desk and crosses his arms with a satisfied smirk.

That earns him a blink.

Two.

And a smile that’s almost a sneer—or maybe it’s just a sneer. “Seems to me like we need to talk after class.”

( _Hallelujah_ , part of him says. The part that’s half raging hormones and the other part that hates to go home.

 _Shit_ , says the rest of him.)

“Shit,” Courfeyrac echoes to his left.

“Shit,” he agrees.


End file.
